


Need, Want, Take

by NothingSoDivine



Series: NSD Writes Homestuck [10]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Human, Black Romance, Bonus Chapter, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, F/M, Humanstuck, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Bad At Titles, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multiple Orgasms, PWP, Remix, There Isn't A Tag For That?, WUZZLES!, also, and, anyway, cheers fellas, i guess, i think, mentions of sadomasochism, sort of, there isn't a tag for that either?, there's a tag for that?, this is just an excuse for more porn, woo! humanstuck blackrom, wow that's a lot of tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-19 22:53:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3627315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingSoDivine/pseuds/NothingSoDivine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>You're Snowman, a </em>femme fatale<em> with the brains and looks and drive to </em>run<em> this damn city, a woman with charisma and charm and wicked eyes. A woman who's already earned a reputation as one no man can or will ever touch.</em></p><p><em>Now, with Spades Slick sleeping in the other room, water pouring down on you from the leaky motel showerhead, you can't get the sound of his voice out of your head. </em>Most people call me Jack<em>. The first words he ever said to you, and you already knew you wanted him before he'd finished his sentence.</em></p><p>Night three of Chapter 6 of Boomslang from Snowman's perspective. Lots of smut, and just a hint of backstory. Just how we all like it :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Need, Want, Take

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [lord_is_it_mine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lord_is_it_mine/pseuds/lord_is_it_mine) for the excellent beta and encouragement!

Damn him. Damn him for being so attractive, with his fucking hair and his fucking _eyes_ (why did you have to love brown eyes so much?) and the way he can fuck you raw with his gaze. Damn him for being such an obnoxious bastard, for having that low, gravelly voice that pierces through your consciousness in the absolutely _perfect_ way to drive you up the wall in all the most sexual ways; damn him for being such an open book. Your head falls back against the tiled wall with a dull _thunk_. Damn him.

Damn him for the way he sees you, too, looking right through everything you could try to put up against him, even against yourself. The thing is, you're not even sure he does it on purpose - you don't know if he's aware of how right he is whenever he uses his words against you, whenever he insinuates things about you that you don't want to remember are true.

 _Well, can you really argue with him calling you a whore?_ you ask yourself ruefully. The answer is no, of course; not right now, not when you're seconds from caving in and just damn well touching yourself. Not when you remember how you survived for - how long was it; four years? No - longer, probably closer to six. God, you're not going to remember, you promised yourself. You swore you'd forget who you used to be. Blake Quinto is dead, that's all there is to it; Blake Quinto is dead, and the woman who now wears her face is not and never will be her. But there's nothing you or anyone else can do to erase her existence. She is no longer, but she still was, and hundreds of men, maybe even thousands, could swear to it. That is, if they even remember her now. You doubt it. You were just the quickest lay, the nearest cunt for them to park their dicks in for the evening.

No. Not you. _Blake_. You aren't her. You aren't that scared child of sixteen, in the back room of a bar, trapped and claustrophobic between the wall and the man who reeked of beer and urine and sweat, the one who lost his face in your memory before he'd even left the room. You aren't her. You're Snowman, a _femme fatale_ with the brains and looks and drive to _run_ this damn city, a woman with charisma and charm and wicked eyes. A woman who's already earned a reputation as one no man can or will ever touch. A woman who, consequently, hasn't had sex for almost five years.

Some nights, you'd swear your libido was trying to kill you.

Now, with Spades Slick sleeping in the other room, water pouring down on you from the leaky motel showerhead, you can't get the sound of his voice out of your head. _Most people call me Jack_. The first words he ever said to you, and you already knew you wanted him before he'd finished his sentence. You take a deep breath, trying to calm down, to cool the heat pooling between your thighs.

 _What if I'm looking for someone to tie me down?_ he asked you once. His voice echoes in your head, low and just rough enough to be the perfect bedroom rasp. _What if I'm looking for someone to tie me down?_

You give up. Wrapping an arm around your waist to rest on your opposite hip, you raise the other to run your fingers through your hair, letting your nails scrape your scalp. For someone with your... appetite, you probably shouldn't leave your fingernails this long, but you've never minded.

 _Tie me down,_ Jack's voice echoes again in your head, but this time it's not the tail end of a question, it's a plea. God, he'd sound so good begging, with that snarling voice and that faint hint of an accent - Italian, you think. The hand on your hip slides a little lower. You can picture it, even with your eyes wide open - your hands on his shoulders, holding him down, him letting you without a fight, without even pretending to struggle, nothing but pleading, _restrain me, bind me, take me_. You picture him underneath you, pinned down, completely unable to fight you, to keep you from doing everything you want to do to him, and it makes your blood boil, makes you _burn_ against your own teasing fingertips. God, you're a mess, already so _wet_ , so desperate that it's making you heady. You slip a finger in, feeling your fingernail scrape lightly against your walls, careful not to cut yourself.

Oh. Oh, god. What if... what if you tackled him to the ground, pounced on him and pinned his hands with your knees, forced him to watch you do this to yourself? You slip in another finger, let your head tilt to the side, temple thumping lightly against the wall. Or - _shit_ , what if you pinned him down and then made him eat you out, rode his face until you wrenched an orgasm, two, even three from yourself, without letting him touch - not you, not himself, not anything, just force his hands down and take your pleasure from him until there was nothing left to take. You crook your fingers, spreading them as you rake your other hand through your hair, plowing five furrows through the drenched black curls. You'd do that to him, too, get your hands in his perfect hair and pull until he begged you for something, anything - more, less, pity, release.

You shudder your way through one orgasm, but don't stop moving your fingers. You've got a long night ahead of you. You can feel it.

God, the sounds he would make if you attacked his scalp - you've done it once, wrenched his head around by the hair, but he smothered the noise he would've made. You imagine it, letting your eyes flutter closed. He'd sound _so good_ , you know he would. Would he moan? Make one of those soft strangled noises your own throat makes sometimes? You're not sure, but you feel like he'd be bad at strangling his voice. If anything, you think he'd moan. You'd _make_ him moan.

You slip in a third finger, move them faster as you press your thumb steadily against your clit. Your nail scrapes you on the way in, and you hiss, but relish the sting. God, you want him, and if you cared enough to be embarrassed, you would be, but right now, you really don't give a damn. You want him. You've never wanted anyone this much, you're fairly sure - even that asshole Scratch couldn't turn you on this much, and he was damn good at it. Hell, he was the one who taught you to like sex, even after your history with it. You can't help chuckling a bit at the memory. He bought you for a night to make you feel special, he said. He bought you to make _you_ feel good, and somehow he knew exactly how to do it without any prompting from you - which was nice, because at that point sex was kind of a traumatizing experience for you. He probably had some kind of fucked-up reason for it, looking back at it - he's not entirely right, you don't think, and you're pretty sure there's some psychological issues there where he just wants to serve, all the time, even though he's such a know-it-all asshole, but you don't give a shit now, because you're close to a second orgasm and the water hitting your neck feels like rain and _god_ you want to be fucked in the rain, you've never understood why but you've always wanted to - you reach over and crank the dial over to lukewarm, to rain-temperature.

The chill against your skin is too much, in all the best ways - you come again, panting against the spray. God, it feels _so good_ on your burning skin. You fold your free arm against your chest, and the heat from your skin makes a magnificent contrast to the cold of the water. It doesn't smell like rain, but that's okay, it's fine, because you've got three fingers in your cunt and you _want him_ , god you want him. You can almost feel him - against your back, whispering in your ear; sucking at your neck; _his_ fingers inside you, _his_ breaths panted out into the still-steaming air.

Your third orgasm hits you like a brick wall, but you don't stop moving your fingers, don't stop the relentless pressure, don't stop intentionally pressing against the stinging scrape you left a minute ago. You imagine kissing him, stretching out on top of him while he lies there, clueless, and the sudden burst of heat against the heel of the hand you've got pressed to your clit decides you. You retract your hand, barely wincing at the sudden empty feeling (god, you hate that). You crank the water off and step out of the shower without even bothering to rinse off your hand. You check your nails quickly for blood, but don't find any. Good.

Silently, dripping wet, you pad out of the bathroom to stand beside the bed. Jack's asleep. That's fine. You can wake him up easily enough.

Moving carefully, you slink onto the bed and shift until you're straddling him. He's on his back, and in his shirt and trousers. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone. God, he's handsome, even with that scar over his eye, or maybe because of it. God, you're so wet. The breeze from the open window chills the water on your skin until you should be shivering, but you're burning like an ember, and you're fairly sure nothing could freeze you now.

 _He keeps a knife under his pillow_ , you remind yourself, and slip your clean hand under the pillow to find it. The sheath's empty, though, and you remember that it's still sitting on the bathroom counter beside your hair.

"Jack," you breathe. He stirs, but doesn't wake up. God, if you don't get some pressure on your junk you're going to die of sex withdrawal. You almost laugh at the thought. The potential irony.

"Jaaaack," you hiss again. He stirs again, but still doesn't wake up. He mutters something in his sleep, though, and you realise how likely it is that he's going to yell. You slip your hand over his mouth. It's your dirty hand, but what he doesn't know won't hurt him.

" _Jack_ ," you snap, as sharply as you dare, leaning down to get your mouth closer to his ear. He flinches slightly, and you think that might have woken him. " _Jaaaack. Jack, wake up._ "

You're pretty sure you feel his cock twitch beneath you as you move a tiny bit closer. " _Jack_ ," you breathe again, more insistently, and he shudders as your lips _almost_ brush the shell of his ear. " _ **Jack**_."

He mumbles something along the lines of "What do you want?" against your hand.

"Jack," you say again, strangling the urge to let it turn into a moan. "Jack, I want you to fuck me."

He makes the most beautiful sound you've ever heard, and it goes straight to your cunt. All right, he's awake, restraint doesn't need to be a thing any more. You roll your hips down against his, feel his cock hardening against you, and run your tongue up the side of his neck. The moan he makes almost coaxes a sympathetic moan from you, but you don't let it. You want to hear every sound he makes tonight.

Like the way he yelps when you bite down, almost hard enough to draw blood. You'd be concerned with anyone else, but then again, this is Jack, and he's at least as much of a masochist as you are. Finally.

The second you reach for his fly, he starts talking, and no, that's not okay, not tonight, tonight is sounds-only, words aren't allowed here tonight, so you cut him off with a vicious "Shut up, just _shut up_." He doesn't want to shut up, you know he doesn't, but he's going to whether he likes it or not. You kiss him. He tastes like morning mouth and cigarette smoke.

His fly gives way and you plunge your hand into his trousers, wrapping your slippery fingers around him. He manages to strangle the noise he makes, which is unfortunate, but when he chokes on your name you have to repress a shudder. Damn, but that's a thing of beauty, that voice. You don't reply, just continue. You could be a tease, you realise belatedly, not give him what he wants - god knows you love to be a tease - but tonight's not that kind of night. You're too impatient, too desperate, and you're fairly sure he's too... _virginal_ to appreciate the gesture.

When he strangles your name the second time, however, you force yourself to stop. You curl your forearm around his head so you can lean in, and ask, with as much saccharine concern as you can muster, "Do you want me to stop?"

The look of utter panic in his eyes is a work of art. "N-no," he says, and it sounds almost like a plea, "but -"

"Then _shut the fuck up_ ," you cut him off in the most threatening tone you have, finally succumbing to the temptation to dig your wicked nails into his scalp. His eyes roll back in his head the tiniest bit, and he hisses at the pain but you know he loves it.

You retrieve your other hand from his pants, use it to prop yourself up with as you rock against him, feel the head of his cock nudging at your cunt. You shudder. Jack's begging silently - his lips are moving, spelling out pleas, and you almost wish you could hear them, but no, another time - and you're just as desperate, you wouldn't be surprised to find that water's not the only thing you're dripping onto Jack's trousers. His hands fly to clutch at every part of you he can reach, fluttering nervously from your legs to your waist and back again, and you're almost offended that he's not going for your tits but the overwhelming feeling is just _NO_ so you grab his wrists, slam them down by his head. He whines. God, he's hot.

You reach back down and wrap your hand around the base of his cock, position him where you want him. Then you sink down onto him, and your vision goes momentarily black.

He's too fucking perfect, and you can't stand him, but you _want_ him, so much that even now, when you _have_ him, he's _right here_ , you're _taking him_ , you still ache with a desperate, burning want that feels like pleasure but burns like pain, consumed by the fire racing across your skin.

God, he splits you so perfectly, it's like some twisted asshole made you for each other, damn well _designed_ you both to fit together like this. The scrape you left a few minutes ago in the shower is stinging, and the pressure's building like carbonation in a bottle. You arch your back, rock your hips down, and suddenly there's a bright burst of pain and you're coming, head falling back as the pleasure wracks through you.

Through the haze, you dimly register Jack's voice murmuring, _I hate you_. Rolling your head languidly back up onto your shoulders, you look down and meet his eyes, electric green on deep brown.

He makes the most beautiful strangled cry as he comes, and you feel it inside you, a burst of white heat. Something still hurts, and you realise slowly that it's his nails digging into the tops of your thighs, just below the juncture of your hips. You just hunch there, panting, and wait for the fog to clear. He wrenches his hands away from you, and you swallow a hiss of pain.

After enough time has passed that you think you might be able to stand, you pull off him, staggering to your feet and stumbling back to the bathroom. Your everything is sore in the most delicious way possible. You're going to be feeling this for days, possibly even weeks depending on the damage he did to your legs. You fumble your way into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you and slumping, boneless, against it.

From the other room, you hear Jack let out a roar of frustration. You grin.

 _You just fucked Spades Slick_ , you remind yourself. You start to giggle, then to cackle, endorphins swimming through your blood and making everything hazy.

The tops of your thighs are stinging like a bitch. You don't bother to flick on the light - just swipe your finger across the stinging line, raise it to your nose, smell the iron tang.

He drew blood.

Bastard.

You'll get him for that one.

**Author's Note:**

> ... This is why I haven't been working on Boomslang much recently. I've been working on the bonus chapter. So sue me.
> 
> Also, if you haven't read it yet, go read [_Boomslang_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3408116) because (if I may say so myself) it's really fucking good, and I'm really fucking proud of it.


End file.
